


Survivors

by maidofviolets



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt/Comfort, War, possibly??? i don't know if it's that graphic, probably not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maidofviolets/pseuds/maidofviolets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There wasn’t a sound to be heard apart from the tapping of rain and the sound of pools trickling into one another and flowing slowly down the bloodied slope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survivors

**Author's Note:**

> Not too sure why I had this idea. I wasn't going to post it at first, but here we are, so I hope you enjoy it.

The battle was over.

Pattering sounded around the blood-stained field as a light rain splashed down from the sky, streaking the corpses of dead men and women, surrounding them in muddy puddles of their own blood. Some lay peacefully with their eyes shut, bled out from a fatal injury and undisturbed by other fighters. Others were broken, frozen with their faces twisted into expressions of terror and pain, bodies stuck in a desperate reach for safety. There wasn’t a sound to be heard apart from the tapping of rain and the sound of pools trickling into one another and flowing slowly down the bloodied slope.

Amongst the corpses, a young man stirred. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen; his build was small and his face lacked the firm, squared structure of the older men. However, just from looking at him, even in his current state with blood running down his face and his left eye closed from a slash of a sword, anyone could tell he was a skilled fighter. Even now his undamaged eye was cold and calculating and his features were set into a mask of calm amongst the fallen people as he surveyed the scene. He raised a hand to his head. His red hair had been unevenly sliced in the battle, leaving him with a much shorter fringe than before. Wiping a few bloody strands of hair off his face, he stood up straight, trying to avoid swaying. The young man had no recollection of the recent events of the battle, but it was clear from the field that all the survivors had left. Either that or there were no survivors whatsoever. 

A thought drifted through his mind. Sword. He glanced around and after realising that finding his own would be impossible in this situation, he turned to the nearest body and stooped, pulling their sword from the crimson hand. He didn’t bother to cleanse the blood from his fingers. The dead man had a huge gash on his neck, his eyes wide even in death. Blood was encrusted around his mouth, as expected from a throat injury. The redhead stood up and turned away, clasping the sword firmly in his hand, and began to walk.

He glanced down at his chest while he walked. The badge of his country, bearing the symbol of Rakai, soaked and stained, was still firmly attached to his uniform. He felt a sense of comfort at knowing this and walked with a more confident stride. He became aware that his leg was stinging, and spared it a glance. He had been injured there but it wasn’t fatal. He could find bandages and patch himself up. 

Now that he had a goal, he adopted a more purposeful step, his uninjured eye sweeping the battlefield. Looking for something with only one useful eye was proving to be tough. He would have to travel to the very back of the field to find the medical tents, which was a fair distance away and through the rain and his impaired vision he couldn’t even tell if there were any there. 

He was about to pick up his pace when something nearby twitched.

The man stopped and turned his head just slightly. A stained and muddy figure was stirring in a puddle. The clenching and unclenching of a fist, the raising of an arm, a half-hearted attempt to sit up, and then the soldier fell down again with a whimper. With two paces he could see the struggling man more clearly. He was almost definitely younger than him and his form was even smaller, and unlike the redhead he emitted an aura of uncertainty and fear. As he watched, the smaller man tried to sit up again, let out a pained cry and fell back into the mud with a splash. His arm was twisted and scarred. No wonder he couldn’t get up.

The standing man looked at the other’s chest and managed to make out the badge. The well-known symbol of Seirida was sewn to his clothes, half ripped and splattered with mud. The soldier almost felt pity for the straggler. He may as well put him out of his misery.

He raised his sword over the smaller form’s chest, just as the latter opened his eyes.

They stood there for a while. He couldn’t quite bring himself to lower the sword. Not when those eyes were staring at him, filled with terror and confusion, face streaked with mud and crimson. Eventually the threatened person began to shift backwards away from the sword, slipping on the mud and crying out again when his broken arm connected with the ground. He collapsed again, his breath coming in choked gasps. He was definitely on the verge of tears.

His hair was brown, the man noted. He lowered his sword to his side. “Who are you?”

For a moment he thought the crying figure hadn’t heard him. Then, a weak voice reached his ears. 

“F… Furihata. Furihata… Kouki.”

“Furihata Kouki. Seirida, yes?”

He heard a shaky confirmation, and then a sob. The redhead relaxed his sword-wielding arm. He wasn’t going to kill this person. Instead he walked closer and knelt down next to the man, who fixed his wide, tearful eyes on him and flinched. He had been expecting that response.

“You know who I am. I am Akashi Seijuurou, leader of the Rakai army.”

A tiny nod.

“There was a war. I was knocked unconscious, presumably near the end. Do you happen to know if there are any other survivors?”

Furihata Kouki paused for a moment before tears welled up in his eyes again and he sobbed, more violently than before. “No! T-they’re all… they’re dead. D-dead!” He raised his uninjured arm to his face in an attempt to wipe the mud and tears from his eyes, but only succeeded in getting them even dirtier and he started crying again. “T-towards the end… some of them… s-some of them escaped,” he said between breaths. “I-I blacked out. But…” He turned his head to stare at a body next to him, and a new succession of sobs racked his body once again.

No survivors. Some had fled. But where to? Akashi guessed it wouldn’t be worth questioning the crying boy about that. After a moment he thought about standing up again with a quick “thank you”, but he felt an uneasy twinge in his chest at the thought of leaving the sobbing mess here. It was a strange emotion, but he wasn’t about to ignore it.

With confidence, he extended his hand to the smaller man. “Here. Can you stand?”

The sobbing died down and Furihata stared at him in fearful surprise. His mouth moved as he tried to choke out words. “I… I think so…”

“Get up.”

Furihata’s earthy, shaking hand clasped his own. Akashi pulled him up, careful to avoid putting too much strain on his injured leg. They both rose and the brunet almost collapsed, but Akashi placed his hands under his shoulders to hold him steady. 

“Avoid using your injured arm,” he told him. “I’ll find bandages and medicine. Come with me.”

Furihata nodded quietly. Akashi carefully released his hold on the Seiridan soldier, who stood with shaking legs like a newborn foal before taking a few steps forward. His knee buckled under him but Akashi looped an arm around his upper torso and held him in place. “There.”

As if the display of help was simply the last straw, the soldier’s face crumpled and he began crying again, only this time he didn’t stop. Tears rolled down his cheeks, making pale tracks in the mix of blood and earth coating his face, his body shaking with sobs. His good hand was clenched in the back material of Akashi’s soaked uniform. Akashi didn’t dare let him go. If he let go, the frail boy would definitely fall and he didn’t want to risk anymore damage to his broken arm.

Why was he caring for a soldier of Seirida?

As Furihata staggered forward and pressed his face into an unexpecting Akashi’s shoulder, clinging to him as he cried, the redhead laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and decided that, for once, he didn’t have the answer to that question.


End file.
